Who Are The Violets Now That Strew

If Thou Engrossest All The Griefs Are Thine, Thou Robb'st Me Of A Moiety.

World, World, O World! But That Thy Strange Mutations Make Us Hate Thee/ Life Would Not Yield To Age.

Thy Best Of Rest Is Sleep, And That Thou Oft Provok'st; Yet Grossly Fear'st Thy Death, Which Is No More.

People’s Good Deeds We Write In Water. The Evil Deeds Are Etched In Brass.

How Sometimes Nature Will Betray Its Folly, Its Tenderness, And Make Itself A Pastime To Harder Bosoms!